


Punishment

by snarkydarkling



Category: The Grisha Trilogy - Leigh Bardugo
Genre: Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, alina's "torture" will obviously be more kinkier oops, and i hate malaria with such a burning passion that i'd glady torture him to death, why are my fics getting more and more fucked up, will contain graphic violence guys because the darkling is Not A Nice Guy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-17
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-08-15 14:08:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8059279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snarkydarkling/pseuds/snarkydarkling
Summary: The Darkling hunts down Alina and Mal after the incident on the Fold to inflict his punishment on them both. Told in 3 parts from the Darkling's POV.





	1. The Hunt

The pale light of day illuminated what was left of their party: a skiff caked with dried blood and half-digested innards. A small band of survivors straggled forward, retching violently and collapsing into the snow. The stench of the bodies was enough to make the Healers stop to gag before rushing forward to help.

The Darkling registered the screams like a dull ringing in the background but did not turn back to look. The image of a mousy girl with a heavy bone collar, eyes defiant and hands raised in a blaze of light remained burnt into his memory. There was only one thought pounding in his mind like a steady heartbeat: _he would find them and they would be sorry._

His _kefta_ was smattered with crimson and white sand and across his pale face were scars which ran every which way. A Healer approached to tend to him but he waved them away, dismissively. It had nearly killed him to save what was left of his Grisha and pull them back to the safety of Kribrisk. In the madness, he’d used _merzost_ , and it had cost him dearly.

But they had survived and that was what mattered. As for the girl...

“Ivan,” he snapped. “Prepare another skiff. We are going back into the Fold.”

Ivan needn’t ask why but there was no mistaking the reluctance in the Heartrender’s features.

“ _Moi soverenyi_ , you need rest---”

“Do as I say and you will get your rest.”

There was something unnatural about the Darkling, then. Something indeterminately _wrong_ about the way the shadows clung to him. There were strange hollows under his eyes, the kind borne from a man who has travelled too far, too deep.

Ivan didn’t question the Darkling again.

 

-

 

They couldn’t have gotten far on foot.

The white sands of the Fold were littered with thousands of wasted carcasses, broken skiffs, and crumbling ruins of the city that had once stood there. Without the help of Squallers, it would take a day or more for them to cross the Unsea by foot. And if the boy was wounded, then longer still.

Their second crossing of the Fold was deathly quiet. This was not a demonstration of power. _This was a hunt_ . A hunt for a girl who would be wreathed in a halo of light, dragging a boy she thought she loved. It would almost easy if it weren’t for the _volcra_ circling overhead.

The darkness surrounded them like an impenetrable force and while once the deep unknown shadows had frightened him as a child, he was no longer afraid. Out of all the wretched abominations that lived here, he was the worst of them all.

No, there was nothing to be frightened of.

After what seemed like hours of sailing through nothingness, a tiny flicker of light caught his attention. It was as if someone was holding out a candle in the distance, an eerie will-o’-the-wisp meant to lead travellers astray. The Darkling signalled the skiff's captain to follow quietly behind them.

Dimly, he remembered his mother’s words from a lifetime ago: _Look at how the hawk snatches the lizard. Quietly, swiftly, like a thief in the night. Soaring miles above its prey and watching, waiting. The easiest prey is the kind that does not know it is prey. They bathe on sunny rocks while their enemies lie waiting in shadow._

That is how he knows he will catch her. Because he is a thing of shadow and darkness, accustomed to watching and waiting, an eternity of patience at his feet.

But she is a young thing of light and childish fantasy. Too foolish, too heartsick, too eager to be a lizard when she could be a hawk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More to come! Part 2 will be about Mal's violent torture *evil cackling* and Part 3 will be all about Alina's funishment--er, I mean punishment ;)


	2. The Boy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: **Contains graphic depictions of violence.** Not for the faint of heart.

His footsteps echoed steadily as he approached the Corporalki anatomy rooms.

Usually, this part of the Little Palace was restricted to Heartrenders and Healers but he’d made a special exception for today. As he walked down the darkened corridor that led to the main amphitheatre, he could make out urgent whispers and hushed voices. It had been over fifty years since a traitor had last been publicly tortured and executed and many of those in attendance were too young to remember what it was like to watch. To hear the screams. To have their pleas for death be met with laughter.

The current King had been a young boy when the Darkling had conducted the last public execution, still too young to have attended. Since then, it had been heavily restricted by the Royal Council for being too extreme. If the King had ever seen such an execution in his life, he might deal the Darkling with a bit more care instead of ordering him around like his faithful lap dog.

When he reached the edge of the amphitheatre, he took a moment to wait in the shadows and take in the scene. The seats were full of Grisha and several of King’s men sat in prominent positions. The King himself was seated in front row, still indisposed by Genya’s concoction, but not one to miss such a rare event.

The oculus above them let in the gray morning light, illuminating the figure restrained to the chair in the center, his face contorted as he struggled against his chains.

The tracker.

At the sight of the _otkazat’sya_ , the Darkling’s fingers twitched to make the Cut and watch his useless life leave his severed body. But this was the vexatious boy that had taken his Sun Summoner from him, shared his tent with her, and who knew what else…

His wrath felt like a simmering ocean of magma, threatening to explode at any moment if he watched the stupid tracker any longer. He had learned to mask and control it, like a river of fire honed to precision. His grey eyes flickered to where his Sun Summoner was sitting, wide-eyed and small. Genya was at her side, whispering something comforting but the girl only had eyes for the tracker.

They gazed wistfully at each other like two lovesick puppies. The Darkling’s lips quirked up at the opportunity to destroy such a meaningless bond. He would show Alina the futility of loving an _otkazat’sya_ \---how easily they bled, how easily they broke.  Her love for the boy meant nothing to the sands of eternity that stood before her. She would hate him for what he did today; of that he was certain.

But she would soon forget the tracker in time. When at last there were no borders that divided Ravkans from the Fjerdans or the Shu, when the Lantsov line was but a distant memory, when the people sang the her hymns---their sacred saint of sun and salvation---she would forget this brief moment of her life as he had forgotten so many of his.

He moved from the shadows into the light of the oculus, anticipating the sudden quiet and stillness that followed him when he entered a room and wasn’t disappointed.

The tracker tore his eyes away from Alina and tried to take in the Darkling’s tall figure, his face forced into an expression of faux bravery. He’d seen the expression countless times in young boys who’d never faced a day in battle but somehow thought they knew the taste of war.

“Do your worst,” the tracker spat, his eyes bloodshot and limpid. “It won’t change the fact that I love Alina and I always have. You can’t torture that love out of me!”

Predictable.

The Darkling considered the boy for a moment, contemplating where to begin. Since their journey from the Fold to Os Alta, his thoughts had rarely strayed from his plans of torture and execution. He did not derive much pleasure from torturing traitors. He picked his methods carefully, studying which tools were the most effective in achieving the quickest confessions of treason. But rarely did he savour their pain, their faces contorted in agony, their pleas for mercy.

For this one, however, he intended to take his time.

He would start with the hands. So overlooked were those fingers and knuckles and nails that could be twisted and broken to bring maximum torment. He’d learned through trial and error that inflicting a small dose of pain in the same area over and over again could drive any man insane.

“Malyen Oretsev,” said the Apparat, his voice echoing off the stone walls. “I speak on behalf of His Royal Majesty, Alexander Lantsov III, King of Ravka, who has ordered this public execution for crimes committed against the Crown. The charges are as follows: conspiracy to treason, conspiracy to kidnapping, desertion of official military post, resistance to capture, assault of an _oprichnik_ , theft of a sweet roll from the market of Ryevost…”

The Darkling sighed as the Apparat continued to list off the offences, large and trivial. As far as the public was aware, the tracker was a deranged First Army defective hired by the Fjerdans who, in his obsessive love of the Sun Summoner, had hatched a plot to kidnap her and the stag for himself. Questions were raised about the lack of security and another round of _oprichnik_ guards were added to Alina’s rooms while the traitor in question was dragged here to be executed.

The Crown’s justice was often the Darkling’s revenge in disguise.

“...conspiracy to assassinate the Sun Summoner, and collusion with the Drüskelle, for which the punishment is execution by torture. Does the traitor wish to make a last confession?”

It was typical of the Apparat to use any opportunity to advertise religion. The tracker didn’t seem the religious type so the Darkling was doubly irritated when the boy opened his mouth to make a sentimental apology which he quickly cut off.

“There is no salvation for traitors to the Crown. You have made your choice, tracker. And now you must face punishment of death.”

The boy’s face became a mask of stone cold determination. “I’m not afraid to die.”

Did he think he was going to die with _dignity_ ? The Darkling would make sure the worthless _otkazat’sya_ urinated on himself at least once before he left this mortal world.

“Only fools and liars say such things,” he replied quietly, eyeing the glittering line of silver instruments at his disposal. “Especially when they are so close to the door.”

He selected a long thin nail from the tray and brought it in front of the boy’s face. Part of him wanted to thrust it into his eyeball and watch him scream but then he would no longer be able to see his own intestines being removed. It was also the reason the Darkling suffered through the tracker’s insipid remarks. If he grafted his mouth shut, then he would miss out on the screaming and that was half the fun, really.

He aligned the nail with the smallest finger on the tracker’s right hand. Without so much as a warning, he slammed the nail straight through until he scraped bone. The boy screamed and then clenched his mouth shut, breathing hard through his nose, eyes clenched shut.

“Is that the best you can do?” he hissed through his teeth, blinking up at the Darkling in the haze of pain, a challenge in his blue eyes.

The Darkling wondered if there was a limit to the boy’s stupidity. He could only assume the tracker wanted to appear brave and impressive in front of Alina. To die in a blaze of glory--as they advertised in the First Army propaganda. But the Darkling knew there was nothing romantic about death; even the most opulent and dignified of men soiled themselves or coughed up disgusting fluids when rapping on Death’s door. The tracker would be no different, no matter how determined he was to be special.

That didn’t mean he wouldn’t have his share of fun, however.

“Why did you desert your post?” said the Darkling coldly, while preparing another nail on the tracker’s finger. “Were you a coward?”

The boy’s eyes grew fierce. He attempted to spit in the Darkling’s face but the dribble of saliva landed on the polished tip of his right boot. The boy got a petty satisfaction with this, despite missing his target entirely.

The Darkling slammed the nail into the boy’s finger, eliciting another pained scream. He gestured to Ivan who was more than happy to walk over and shove the chair forward, tilting it so that the tracker’s face was inches from the floor. He struggled against his restraints as the Darkling edged his boot closer to his lips.

“Clean it.”

The tracker bit back his tears and responded by spitting again. “I’d rather die.”

It was tempting to kick him, smearing his own spit against his face. But that would be too easy.

“Not a coward, then,” said the Darkling, gesturing for Ivan to return the chair to its proper place. He thought he caught surprise in the tracker’s eyes before he uttered his next words: “Just an imbecile who does not know the difference between bravery and stupidity.”

He reached forward, lighting pressing against the head of the nail. The boy groaned in protest, biting down hard against his lips to stop from crying out in pain. They were starting to bleed. The Darkling smiled, turning the nail against the bone like a musician tuning an instrument, until the boy finally succumbed and screamed out, an incredible list of curses flying out.

It was usually at this point that they started begging him to stop, but the begs didn’t come. The Darkling was disappointed at this, but no matter. He was just getting started.

First he broke the fingers one by one, until every useless bone in his hands were twisted at a disturbing angle. It was when he shattered both wrists that the _otkazat’sya_ started pleading for the Darkling to kill him quickly; that he’d had enough.

“Please,” he cried, through great gasps of air that shook his whole body. “Get it over with, you bastard.”

The corner of the Darkling’s mouth quirked up. “If you lick it clean,” he said, gesturing to his boot, “perhaps I will consider indulging in a small mercy.”

The tracker’s eyes flickered to Alina momentarily, which irritated the Darkling. He didn’t want those offensive eyes _anywhere_ on his Sun Summoner. He wanted to tear them out of their sockets. 

“I…” began the tracker, looking regretful even as he said it, “would...rather...die.”

The Darkling smiled coldly. He used one of his favourite tools to break the tracker’s legs so hard that his thigh bone protruded unnaturally from a tear in his breeches. The sight was so sickening that several audience members got up to empty their stomachs. Alina continued to watch, horrified and silent.

The sight of a protusion of jumbled white bone and red tissue sticking up from the flesh of the tracker’s thigh was of interest to the Darkling.  He pushed against the bone, trying to figure out which angle and pressure caused the greatest screams. He hadn’t experimented on a live subject in ages. He sank a gloved finger into the wound, digging deep, ripping tendons and muscle, watching the tracker’s agonized screams gradually turn into silent open-mouthed expressions of untold torment.

The sound of trickling accompanied by the stench of urine alerted everyone to the large wet spot expanding in front of the tracker’s breeches.

At last, the boy was broken too.

He was no longer a brave and heroic tracker, valiantly rebelling against his enemy. Finally, the Darkling had revealed the _otkazat’sya_ for what he truly was: a hideous sack of mangled flesh and bone who thought its worthless life was more important than the fate of Ravka and the Sun Summoner.

The Darkling yanked back on the traitor’s hair, forcing him to look up at him. “You are nothing.”

“I am nothing,” he repeated.

The Darkling hadn’t asked him to repeat it, but a small smile tugged at his lips at the tracker’s sudden obedience.

He stepped back for a moment, admiring his work. Before him sat a defeated and disgusting mess of human flesh with bones sticking out at nearly comical angles, soiled breeches, and blood and sweat seeping out.

Alina had looked away ages ago and was now watching the Darkling; at the bright crimson splattered almost beautifully across his stone white face. He had the twisted desire to make her clean the tracker’s blood off of his face with her sweet innocent tongue. After tonight, he would be sure to take his time with her.

He turned back to the traitor in his chair, deciding it was time to end it. He brought his hands together to make the Cut. The tracker’s belly sliced open, his intestines spilling out to the floor. The boy was too horrified to scream but stared at his own internal organs in shock, staining the marble floor.

Ivan stalked over once more, tilting the chair forward. A sickening trail of guts lurched out as the tracker’s face inched closer to his own innards. The Darkling was careful to avoid staining his boot with the blood as he brought it to the boy’s lips once more.

“Clean it.”

This time, the boy didn’t hesitate to lick his own saliva off the boot, eagerly wiping every last speck of offending spit. The Darkling removed his boot and inspected it. As Ivan dropped the chair, letting the boy choke in a pool of his own guts, the Darkling made a note to purchase a new pair of boots and gloves---ones that had never touched the _otkazat’sya_ filth.

The crowd watched the traitor gurgle and twitch as it struggled for breath. Finally, the mass of flesh went still.

The Darkling turned to Ivan who was waiting for further instructions.

“Prepare a separate room for the Sun Summoner,” he said, pulling off his gloves. “I have something more _private_ in mind.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...should I be worried about how much I loved torturing Mal to death in this fic? Feedback welcome! I hope I didn't go too crazy...


	3. The Girl

He roughly shoved the girl inside and slammed the metal door behind him with a deafening bang.

For a moment, he savoured the frightened way she looked up at him, elbows braced against concrete floor, eyes wet with fresh tears. Her lower lip quivered as if she were about to cry. He hoped she would. He had stripped her of her clothes before shoving her inside and now his eyes roamed her pale body, greedily taking in the details as she tried to cover herself in vain.

“The next time you defy me,” he said threateningly, “it will be you on that block. You would not need eyes to summon, would you? Or ears or feet?”

A predatory smile slowly spread over his lips as he watched the girl shudder at his threats. She furiously shook her head and opened her mouth.

“I’m s-sorry, _moi sovre_ \--”

“Quiet,” he ordered. “I have not given you permission to speak.”

She would soon learn she needed permission to do much that she had taken for granted. They were deep underground, somewhere beneath the Little Palace. The only light here came from a series of lit torches hanging from the grey walls. The room was large and cold, its walls, ceilings, and floors all made of hard concrete. There was hardly any furniture, save for a small wooden table and chair on one end and a pile of blankets sitting in one corner.

“The sled dogs were once trained here,” he told her, conversationally. “Before these cells were built, there were kennels. When a dog bit a soldier’s hand, it would be sent here to be re-trained; to remind her who her Master was.”

He cut his eyes to hers, taking sick pleasure in they way they widened at his implication.

“I’m not your dog!” she snapped.  

In an instant, he palmed her jaw, his knees on either side of her tiny frame, pinning her to the floor. Her hands flew to his, trying to pry them off, instinctively. Like a cornered animal.

“I thought I told you not to speak. Shall I have to muzzle you too?”

She opened her lips slightly, thought the better of it, and pursed them shut.

He narrowed his eyes. “Smart choice.”

Lifting her up by the back of her neck, he forced her to sit on the cold concrete floor. Her hair was a tangled mess and now strands flew forward, hiding her face from view. She didn’t pull it back, preferring instead to watch him with those hate-filled eyes through wisps of dark hair. It seemed to suit her: wild and determined to remain untamed.

He pulled the wooden chair forward and took a seat in front of her, aware of how her eyes darted swiftly at every subtle movement. Her supple breasts moved up and down as she took in loud, calming breaths. And from the tops of her thighs that were squeezed together, he could make out the smooth inverted triangle that led to her sex.

“Do not waste your anger on me, Alina,” he said with a tired sigh. “The current situation has resulted entirely from your actions. I thought we had come to an understanding after your first capture. I should have anticipated another betrayal from you. I will not be making that mistake again.”

The girl’s glare only seemed to intensify at his words.

He gave a weary shrug. He had long since grown used to hatred.

“It is obvious now that I was too merciful in punishing you the first time---”

“You were going to kill Mal!”

“The boy is nothing. Power is _everything_. You will learn that soon enough. Now, do I need to muzzle you or will you keep quiet?”

She hesitated for a moment before nodding, shaking strands of her unruly hair.

“Your continued disobedience has stripped you of your privileges as the Sun Summoner. You will not leave this cell until you learn to co-operate. As you were so quick to leave your responsibilities behind, the many comforts you enjoyed at the Little Palace have been removed. You will sleep on the floor. Your meals will consist of stale bread and cold porridge. You will be hosed down once a day to ensure your cleanliness. And if you continue to behave…”

A twisted smile tugged at his lips as he pulled down a brass pot from the table. “...you will be allowed to go in the pot instead of the floor.”

He could almost sense the heat of her humiliation as she glared at the pot he had placed by her knees. She was not the Sun Summoner now, spoiled with unearned authority and saintly titles. She was a feral animal that needed to be domesticated under his firm guidance. When he was through with her, she would not think to cross him again. He would break her down and remould her in his image so that they were no longer at odds with one another.

“Perhaps in the intervening weeks, I may teach you some new tricks, _suchka_.”

He watched the girl flinch as she processed her new name. It was Old Ravkan, but it was obvious she understood the meaning from the way she glared with renewed ferocity.

 

* * *

 

He didn’t visit the girl’s cell for the first week, preferring instead to watch her from the darkened halls. She was miserable, of course. She did not eat the first two days out of some misplaced protesting, but on the third day she wolfed down the soggy porridge as if it were roast lamb. She had tried to use the thin blankets as a makeshift dress but he soon had the blankets removed so she was once again forced to be without clothing. She shivered during the nights and probably did not get much sleep. In the mornings, she was hosed down with ice cold water and the echoing halls were filled with her cries. She went in the pot and when the _oprichniks_ went in to clean and replace it, she often huddled in the corner, too embarrassed to face them.

The Darkling had hoped a week of that routine would have subdued her. But when he returned to her cell for the first time, she was still angry. That was not an issue. They had an eternity together and sooner or later, she would realize her co-operation and submission was the only way to earn her freedom.

He noted that she had since grown used to her nakedness, no longer hiding under the table or curled against the wall. This time, she sat in the wooden chair, her eyes eagerly darting to the reward that was in his hands.

“Off the furniture,” he told her, pointing to the floor.

She narrowed her eyes, looking from the thick, warm blankets in his hands to the cold floor. It was a battle she decided not to fight and gracefully took her position on the floor. She was learning, albeit slowly.

He sat in the chair, his long legs framing her. Her keen brown eyes had never left the blanket.

“If you co-operate, you will get the blanket. Otherwise, you will get the belt. Your decision.”

 The girl nodded, letting out a breath of frustration. She could be a touch more grateful.

"Dance,” he ordered her. “Entertain me.”

The girl furrowed her eyebrows before rising to stand stiffly before him. She attempted what he assumed was supposed to be a dance of some kind but it was clear his _suchka_ was not bred with the poise and grace of a dancer. Her movements were sudden and jerky, like that of a soldier in drill practice.

The Darkling arched an eyebrow, causing the girl to stop and flush. “You will not earn your blanket with such a pitiful performance. Is that all you can do?”

She shot another glare in his direction. With a unreadable look in her eyes, the girl inched closer to him, as if still deciding something. Then, she let out a breath of air and hooked her legs over his lap, straddling him.

The Darkling hid his surprise well, watching her with curious intensity. He had expected her to give up and cry, beg for the blanket. Instead, she was awkwardly writhing against him, her inexperience evident in the way she moved her hips and clung to his shoulders for balance. He wanted to scoff at her attempt to seduce him but that would only discourage her. Besides, this was a game he was well adept at playing.

“Is this what you wanted?” she spat. “A lap dance in exchange for a blanket?”

“Shall I put you over my knee?” he said, gripping her elbows and bringing her pathetic attempt to a halt. “I told you not to speak. There are more useful things you can do with your tongue. If you are so eager to behave like a whore, then I can show you how you ought to be treated..”

He shoved her onto the floor again, a startled whimper escaping her lips. The fire in her eyes was gone, replaced by a simple terror. Eyes filled with tears as she shook her head, “No, please, I won’t speak---”

The Darkling laughed darkly, already feeling himself stiffen at the sight of her fresh tears. “It is much too late for your apologies. If you insist on using your tongue, I will give you something to keep it occupied.”

He could not hide the thrill of excitement that extended through his lean body, holding it taut, as he slipped his hands under her hair and inched her face between his legs. The fear flashing in her eyes only excited him.

“Let me go, you pervert!” she cried, raising her little fists to pound against his chest, ineffectually.

He would have laughed at her sorry attempt if he wasn’t already furious with her. Such insubordination. It was a wonder the First Army was still standing if there was this much lack of discipline among its ranks. Who had taught her to continue disobeying her superiors?

He yanked her hair back, fingers closing around her throat and squeezed tightly. “I can play rough too, _suchka_.” She stilled completely at the threat. “That is the _last_ time I tell you to keep silent.”

A few harsh spankings were long overdue. Was it her lack of parental figures that had left her so eager to rebel? He didn’t care. It was another one of her inconvenient traits he was intent on weeding out as soon as possible, especially if he wanted to deter any more thoughts of betrayal.

“You brought this upon yourself,” he said, wrestling her onto his lap. She was too mortified to fight back, shaking her head in disbelief.

He pushed one knee against her thighs, prying them open so she lay splayed across his lap, hands brushing the concrete floor for support, feet wriggling beneath him, her backside vulnerable and exposed in all its unmarked glory. Her fingers were twitching to savagely break her skin, give her a lesson she could remember every time she attempted to sit.

The Darkling brushed his long fingers over the cold skin of her backside, just lazily enough to spook her. The girl turned her head, attempting to peer at him over her shoulder. Much of her face was still covered by her unruly hair but he could still make out the trepidation in her face.

“Let me go, this is humiliat---”

Quicker than she could blink, he brought his hand down to spank her, knocking the air right out of her. She made a startled sort of noise and stilled completely, finally understanding what she was in for.

He bent his head towards her ear, whispered so softly he could have been offering tender words of love: “That’s the idea.”

He waited for her to say something else, to test her luck with another snappy remark but she simply lay on his lap, breathing heavily and no doubt blushing with shame. Her toes wriggled uneasily but at last it seemed her embarrassment had subdued her.

“I had such plans for you, Alina,” he told her. “Plans for both of us. We could have ruled together as equals. But you keep indulging your childish fantasies rather than serving your country. How many times will you run from your duty, from what is being asked of you?”

The girl stifled a cry as he delivered another smack to her right cheek, her pale flesh forming a pink handmark.

“No one forced you to run away. No one forced you to abandon the skiff to the mercy of the _volcra_. All for what? Your tracker is still dead, just as I promised you he would be.”

He reached back to grab the belt off the table, folding it in half so the leather band stood taut like a whip. He sensed her shifting nervously on his lap and he shook his head. Her pain could have been avoided if she would just behave.

“You still remain oblivious to the result of your actions. You do without thinking. You speak without waiting. You take your punishments like an oppressive injustice, rather than a natural consequence of your stupidity. I have tried to educate you, _suchka_ , but you insist on making me the villain. Now I want to know you _understand_ why I am punishing you this time.”

The girl remained still, muscles tensed as she waited for the next blow to strike. Through the parting of her inner thighs, he could make out the pink folds of her sex, glistening in the low light with moisture. He hadn’t expected her to enjoy herself nearly this much and the thought that she wasn’t taking this seriously only enraged him. He took a deep, calming breath to stop himself from whipping her senseless right then and there. This was a punishment that required his control.

He massaged the spot where he’d struck her, kneading the soft flesh in his rough hands and she seemed to relax a little, unaware of just what was coming to her. Stupid girl. Was everything always a game with her?

Raising the belt at an angle, he swung fast and hard, striking her with such a blow that she cried out and tried to scramble out of his lap reflexively. He tightened his grip on her, trapped her legs between his and waited for her to still. A fresh pink line had formed over the handprint on her right cheek. He tested the flesh and it was warm to the touch, still stinging.

“Speak,” he instructed. “Tell me what that was for. Show me you understand.”

The girl began to speak, her voice significantly quieter than it was before. All the fire was gone from her tone. “I...I...It’s for r-r-running away.”  

“That’s right,” he told her, arm ready to swing the belt again.

His next strike landed on her left cheek and her hips bucked in response. Another whimper of pain escaped her lips and legs flailed uselessly in the air.

“Now tell me what that was for.”

She hesitated, fighting tears. He was perplexed as to why she was so stubborn to keep her dignity (as if she had much left at this point). He hoped by the time he was through with her, she would be nothing but a sobbing, writhing mess on his lap, begging for mercy.

“For...what I did on the Fold.”

“Do you deserve more lashes for that?”

“I’m sorry, I...y-yes.”

Finally, she was being honest. How many men had she killed? Ten? Twenty? How many of his own soldiers? No amount of whipping would bring them back from the dead, but the Darkling settled for briskly spanking her fives times on each cheek, alternating between blows. She cried out more loudly this time, reaching her hand back to sooth her stinging backside, legs wriggling wildly to escape the end of his belt, but his hold was strong and relentless.

He gave her only a moment of relief from the pain and the room was filled with the sound of her loud, shallow breathing and occasional whimpers. He raised the belt again, this time lashing against the sensitive spot at the start of her thighs. She yelped and muttered an indecipherable curse. A smile tugged at his lips when he noted her toes were now curling and uncurling in frustration. She certainly wasn’t enjoying this anymore.

“Tell me. Why did I strike you?”

When she didn’t respond, he lashed her again, causing more cries. “We can do this all night if you prefer.”

“No, I just...I don’t know. I don’t know why.”

The Darkling was incredulous.  

“You truly think yourself so innocent? How naïve you are, _suchka_. If you’ve so easily forgotten your infractions, I can gladly remind you.”

The girl stiffened beneath him, muscles tensing once more. She knew she was in for it this time and the Darkling was only too glad to prove her right. He didn’t try to hold back anymore, pausing only long enough to state her transgression before swinging the belt again.

“This is for thoughtlessly believing Baghra’s accusations,” he said, after catching her right cheek again. “For evading capture.” Another swat. “For talking back.” Two more swats. “For wasting time with that useless _otkazats’ya_.” Swat, swat, swat. “For your endless ingratitude.” Five swats, with one landing painfully on her upper thigh once again.

The girl sobbed through her punishment, hips bucking wildly every time the belt landed. She lost count of how many lashes she endured. He counted twenty-three in total: two with his hand, twenty-one with the belt. He wanted to spank her some more, just out of spite, but she was already the ruined mess he hoped she would be.

He let the belt clatter to the floor, signalling the lesson was over. The girl didn’t move, simply covered her face in her shoulder and wept. Out of pain or humiliation or guilt or some combination of all three. Her entire backside was inflamed in angry red marks. The thought of her spending the rest of the night nursing her sore buttocks with a packet of ice warmed his cold heart.

The Darkling was encouraged to see that the pain and humiliation of her punishment had made the girl more compliant. There was now only one thing left for her to do if she wanted to earn the blanket (and some ice). He turned her over, careful not to touch her stinging backside, and set her down gently on the floor again. She immediately unfurled her hips gingerly, touching the cool concrete to her heated skin and gathering her breath. Her eyes had taken on a rare dazed quality, like that of a waiting soldier eager for instruction.

“I will give you one more chance to earn your blanket,” he told her.

She nodded.

“You were surprisingly wet when I spanked you earlier,” he told her, watching a flush enter her cheeks. “You seemed anxious to touch yourself.”

She averted her gaze, training her eyes anywhere but at him. That was how he knew she had wanted it but was too shy to admit it.

“If you want the blanket, show me how you please yourself.”

A moment of hesitation and obvious discomfort passed before the girl reached a hand down between her legs and began to draw slow circles on her clit. Her eyes closed and her tongue darted out to taste her bottom lip. The Darkling watched her head roll back as she increased her pace, wetness coating her eager fingers. For a moment, he was bored with her performance, thinking that was all there was to getting her off.

But the girl brought her other hand up towards her nipples, teasing their hard peaks. She slowly opened her eyes, peeking up at him from under her dark lashes, eyes full of wanting. She harshly inserted two fingers inside her tight centre, moaning a little from the pain. He knew exactly what sort of fantasies were crossing her mind from the way she was looking at him, hungry and desperate.

More than being flattered, he was vindictively pleased she had forgotten her useless tracker so easily. Now, nothing else seemed to pass through her mind except for the thought of wanting to be filled by him.

Just as she arched her back, ready to let an orgasm sweep through her body, he reached out and snatched her hand away.

“Careful,” he said with a sadistic smile, “I haven’t given you permission for release.”

The girl looked pained. She looked at him expectantly, gaze darting from his cold grey eyes to the bulge that was growing in his breeches.

“You've earned it now, _suchka_.”

He crouched next to her, taking her hand and pressing it against his thigh. She was breathing heavily now, licking her lips like she was preparing for her next meal. She had been so against it before, but now she seemed more than willing to take anything in her mouth.

The corner of his lips twitched as he passed her the blanket. She stared at it, her eyebrows furrowing in confusion for a second.

“Your reward,” he told her, straightening up.

The Darkling turned towards the door, pausing to look over his shoulder at her disappointed face. “But perhaps that isn’t what you wanted?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter didn't turn out to be as steamy as I would have liked, but oh well. I kind of consider this fic a loose prequel to Morozova's Collar. Anyway, hope you enjoyed it!


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